Name
by Mitsuye-san
Summary: Atem is ten when his soulmate's name appears. Bits of blindshipping.


**Summary:** Atem is ten when his soulmate's name appears.

 **Pairing:** Blindshipping

* * *

 **Name**

 **I.**

Atem is ten when his mark appears.

It's simple, but he's ecstatic all the same. Lines intersect and curve in strange, interesting ways, and in that moment he's aware that it's foreign. He also finds that he doesn't care.

Brushing his fingers over the back markings, he feels a smile forming at the faint warmth, though he's not sure if the sensation is the making of his imagination or not. He doesn't dwell on it, finding the bubble of something like _completion_ rising in his chest real enough.

And because of that, he loves his mark, his known yet unknown soulmate, and the infinite comfort they bring dearly.

When he finishes ogling his forearm - for that is where the name of his soulmate is imprinted, running a short distance up and down his skin from the inside of his elbow to some point halfway up - he throws on whatever ornaments he's required to wear and makes a mad dash to his father's chambers. Foregoing practical teachings, Atem bypasses the guards without a nod or word, breaking passed the door and the curtains separating his father from the rest of the palace with a childish grin. His hand, wrapped over the foreign name that brings him joy and life and _yesyesyes this is it_ , hides the thin strokes from sight when his father looks up at the noisy interruption.

"My son, what brings you so early in Ra's journey?"

Atem doesn't answer and bounds into the room with light feet, a smile lighting up the room with as much fervor as the light from Ra's ascension into the sky. His father looks perplexed, eyeing the hand around his arm and the expression of pure happiness reeking of all things joyous and wonderful. He waits with a patient gleam in his eyes because he can see his son struggling to form words around his stubborn, seemingly permanent smile. It brings a burst of affection in his chest, seeing Atem so _cheerful_ , and he burns this moment - with his precious son glowing in the morning light, emitting a tremendous glow himself - into his mind.

"Father," is all Atem manages before he shoves his arm out for him to see, giving up on words.

Euphoria lifts his trembling body at the sight of the mark decorating his son's arm. He brings a hand to his eyes, thanking the gods for hearing his prayers and calls and pleas, and kneels down before the child before him with tears brightening his eyes. Shaking, unable to breathe, he wraps his arms around Atem and buries his face into the small shoulder.

Because Atem is ten years when he gets his mark. Because after years of stomping down on hateful murmurs of _soulless_ and _demon_ and _cursed child_ , there is solid proof that his son is neither of those, never was, and never will be. Because in his old age, he finally has assurance of someone loving his son with all their heart when he departs from this world and moves on to the next.

Small arms try to wrap around his shoulders only to fall a distance short, but the firm pressure of Atem's hug is enough. After a moment, his son's shoulders hunch, the grip just behind his own shoulders tightening, before they tremble with restrained emotion. Aknamkanon brings a hand to his son's head, carding through his hair.

"Cry," he murmurs, voice thick with his own emotions. He pats a rhythmic beat with his other hand between Atem's shoulder blades, listening as the first of the sobs forces their way out of his child's pressed lips. "Cry, Atem, for you are happy. Share this happiness with me, please, that's all I ask."

They both let go of their restraints, tears rolling down both their cheeks and staining their clothes. Underneath his clothes, right over his heart, Aknamkanon feels his own mark heat up. It's the mark of a dead woman, his soulmate, and he used to think it an ugly reminder of what they had, what they could've been, whenever he glanced at it. Now, it brought comfort and warmth for both father and son.

"Your mother is proud, Atem," he whispers to the shivering child. He pauses his patting to wipe at his tears, taking in a shuddering breath.

Atem clings to him with all that he's worth, his throat constricting painfully at the words, but hurriedly wipes his eyes when his father pulls him back by his shoulders. His mark is traced by aged fingers, and to his shock his father chuckles, relieved and with a spirit he never heard before. It morphs into a contagious laugh and Atem joins in with his own ringing laughter, eyes still bright with fresh tears but feeling so much lighter than he has in years.

It's in this moment that he hears it, small and quiet compared to his laugh, his father's voice.

"I'm proud of you, Son."

And Atem's cuts off his laugh to throw his arms around Aknamkanon again, new tears blurring his vision.

"I'm proud of you, Atem," he repeats, hugging the small body close.

 _For being strong in the face of demons._

 _For not giving up when backs were turned against you._

 _For smiling and laughing after what you've been through._

"Truly..." He trails off, breath hitching and voice breaking. "You've earned this piece of happiness. Take it and never let it go."

 **II.**

Very few know about his mark.

As he trails behind his father, Atem wonders over this. He doesn't hide it - he never will, not even if his life is on the line - but he thinks it's because his mark, foreign as it is, doesn't _look_ like one. Unconsciously, his fingers skim over the strokes on his arm, and he smiles at the answering warmth.

To any outsider, it looks like he scrawled random lines on his arm, uncaring and not at all like any of the images he sees on the tablets or on other people's bodies. That's what his mark is to them: Lines. Uncoordinated and having no true meaning in their eyes, his mark - his soulmate's _name_ \- is nothing but a child's impulsive urge.

To him, it's intricate, complex, but _beautiful_ in its own right. They're lines, yes, but they have purpose. They curve and intersect, come together and separate, to make four distinct characters that he feels belong together, were made to fit with each other with the same elegant ease as they do on his arm.

武藤遊戯

He doesn't know how to pronounce it, much to his frustration, but he hopes to learn one day, someday, in the future - near or far, it doesn't matter, so long as he gets to say the name with his own voice. Now, though, he contents himself with memorizing each stroke that goes with each character, tracing it absently or writing it in the sand or on whatever surface he sees fit. He still misses some pieces, like the small lines accenting the more prominent body of the character, but he doesn't give up, _refuses_ to, and tries again after each failed attempt.

With each success, he feels a little closer to his soulmate.

 **III.**

"Is that the marking of a curse?"

Atem flinches from where he stands beside his father who shoots up from his seat and vehemently pounds the man down with sharp, furious words. Aknamkanon isn't one who's easy to anger, but that curious question - sounding so much like an accusation to his ears - makes the rage in him boil. After the man is chastised and sent away, he glances back to see his son staring at the golden flooring, head bowed and hands clenched into fists.

"Atem - "

"It's all right, Father," Atem interrupts, voice quiet and soft and _fragile_ , and it makes Aknamkanon want to call the man back and condemn him for causing his son grief. Atem looks up, a forced smile twisting his features as he shakes his head. "You don't have to ask anymore."

In his hand is a piece of papyrus big enough to display one of the characters on Atem's arm, one that he had copied down with startling care, and the man had _insulted_ it.

Reaching out to his son, Aknamkanon sets a hand on his shoulder, squeezing the taut muscles into relaxing. "You did not deserve to hear that," he says, not knowing how else to raise his spirits.

"Perhaps not, but maybe I needed to hear it, Father," Atem returns, voice still achingly soft in the large throne room. He gives his father's hand a reassuring squeeze before sliding it off his shoulder, turning away. "I will return to - "

"No one needs to hear the name of their soulmate called a curse!"

Scarlet eyes glance back at him, tired beyond his years, and Aknamkanon flinches back at the exhaustion teeming in their depths. Atem grasps his forearm, over his beloved mark. "Thank you for helping me, Father, but this is enough." His fingers tighten over the familiar heat branding the unknown name on his hand with phantom pain. "I... I wish to rest."

He walks away.

 **IV.**

Sometimes, in his mind's eye, he can see his soulmate.

He sees their kind smile, their hand as they help him up, their sparkling eyes as they sit beside each other, speaking in low tones for no one else to hear. He feels their skin, their warmth, their _love_ , and he can't help but wish that they would never leave, that he would never wake up, and that this dream is his reality.

But then he wakes up, his dreams wisps of incomplete thoughts that are too far away for him to grasp. He forgets what his soulmate looks like, but remembers the little sensations of when their fingers touch or when their knees brush or when they wrap their arms around each other, because he won't lose that, won't stand for it when his soulmate's face is erased from his mind every night, and latches onto those phantom sensations with all of his heart. He remembers these moments when his heart races, when his face flushes, when he laughs until he cries, when he feels nothing but tenderness - because these are his proofs that his soulmate isn't a curse, is _real_ and _alive_ , and waiting for him just as he is waiting, too.

And just that - just that small fragment of his dreamworld - keeps him going.

Atem breathes in, thumb tracing the name stroke for stroke without him having to look at it, and tries again. "Yu - " He cuts off, unable to continue because he doesn't know how, doesn't know what comes after, and heaves a sigh even as his lips mouth the name he's unable to speak.

 _One day_ , he promises, closing his eyes and letting the faint echo of a voice comfort him as he drifts off.

 **V.**

The first person to find out about his mark - outside of Mana, Mahad, and his father - declares him demonic.

"He carries script foreign to my trained eyes," the man, a traveler educated and knowledgeable about the known world, exclaims as he jabs a finger at Atem. Menes is his name, and while he is willowy and aging, he has a strong voice and equally stubborn will. "Pharaoh, you must rid him of that mark or the gods will send suffering upon your people!"

"My son is pure of heart and soul," Aknamkanon retorts, fingers unconsciously brushing against the puzzle hanging around his neck. He levels the man with an icy look. "You should know better than to accuse my own flesh and blood of harboring such a thing."

"How else would he get that mark if he weren't cursed?" Menes argues, beady eyes narrowing at Atem with obvious disdain, and he waves his finger at the teen again but drops it after seeing the glare the pharaoh shoots him. Keeping his eyes on the young heir to the throne, he snarls, only to back down when Atem showed no signs of returning his taunt.

Putting a hand to his head, pressing down on his throbbing temples, Aknamkanon sneaks a glance at his son. A mask of indifference is forced over the emotions he knows his son is hiding, and a twinge of guilt strikes him again for putting his son in this situation, for not keeping him away despite the ominous feeling he felt. "Are you alright?" he murmurs, ignoring the man's incessant claims.

Atem looks at him from the corner of his eye, not moving an inch out of place, and lets his lips quirk into the tiniest of smiles. "As much as I'll ever be - though I think my ears are becoming a little sore listening to him."

He doesn't chuckle like he wants to, but lets a smile surface on his own features, and -

"Have you lost your mind, Pharaoh!"

\- sends a chilling glare to Menes. The man backs up, not because of the glare that promises a thousand and one deaths, but because of the horrendous thought that flickers across his mind. A trembling finger points at both the pharaoh and his son, a look of sheer terror slackening his facial muscles.

"You- you've fallen under its spell!" A maniacal laugh escapes his parched lips, half-crazed and half-terrified as he continues to shuffle backwards. Menes falls onto his backside, pushing himself across the floor in an effort to flee when the pharaoh moved to stand. "Pharaoh, you- you must snap out of it! That- that _thing_ has possessed you."

"My _son_ is no _thing_ , Menes." Aknamkanon sets a hand on Atem's shoulder, both father and son looking tall and regal as their eyes bear down on the scholar. He feels nothing but the burning desire to chuck the man into the dungeons for his outcries, for harming his son in the only way he _could_ harm him, because Atem deserves better than this, deserves to at least have happiness in the knowledge that he has a soulmate - not condemned and labeled _demon_. His hand tightens its hold on Atem's shoulder.

"Mutiny!" Menes cries. "You heinous - "

"Silence!" Aknamkanon roars, eyes blazing. He turns Atem away and pushes him towards the side door, quietly ordering him to leave. "Your disrespect will not be tolerated here, Scholar, especially towards my only son. Had you the mind and intelligence required to _think_ , then you would have been spared for your insolence - however, not only have you displayed your appalling _lack of sense_ , you have angered me. I cannot forgive your misdeed, I will not hear your pleas, you wi - "

Atem shuts the heavy door behind him, ending his father's speech but not Menes' wails and incredulous screams which filter through even though the door is thick.

He touches his soulmate's name, hesitant, but the familiar habit of tracing the characters soothes him into a placid state. Taking a step away from the door, then another, and another, until he's making his way to his room, Atem lets thoughts of his dreams console him from the nightmare he escaped from.

It's terrible, how much he's come to depend on these dreams. They hurt and help, and ache and relieve, and he can't stop himself from wanting a little more with each night that passes. The smiles and laughs and giggles and touches - he wants them all, not every night but forever. He wants to wake to his soulmate beside him in his arms, to kiss and tease with fleeting touches throughout the day, and to hold each other until they fall asleep.

is that too much to ask for?

Feeling his lips twist and throat clench, he bypasses the guards and flies into his room, hiding his bright eyes and muffling the pained sounds that slip through unbidden.

 **VI.**

Sleep becomes an enemy he fights against.

From jumping into sky-high piles of work to doing miscellaneous things like walking around the palace, Atem searches out every distraction he can in hopes of dodging sleep. So long ago, slumber was enticing and he invited it with open, if tired, arms. It was rest well deserved, rest he needed and welcomed without the slightest struggle.

Now, sleep is dreaded. Because sleep means dreams, and dreams mean his soulmate and eventually forgetting every moment they spend together save for the small things that _don't_ _help him anymore_ , and forgetting means hurt. Pure, unrestrained hurt that eats him alive from the inside because its his heart that's hurting, that's pounding in pain and pulsing with agony, and he can't heal it because he doesn't know _how_.

So he does the only thing he can. He stops sleeping.

He doesn't count the sleepless nights and too bright days as they pass or maybe he does and he only forgets it, he can't remember. His mind deteriorates, slows down, but he pushes it along, _forces_ it to work because he can't stop or else sleep will pounce on him like a starved wildcat and he can't let that happen. It takes sheer will, but he digs his teeth into the side of his cheek and throws himself forward to any distraction that walks across, uncaring of the consequences because now he isn't haunted by the sweet smile and embarrassed laughs, and he can ignore that faint memories of fingers that aren't his brushing across his mark, whispering the name into his ear.

It hurts and its obvious, but he believes this to be the lesser of the two evils and sticks with it.

But then people notice. They crowd around him and ask him to stop, to settle down and rest because the shadows under his eyes are telling. But his resolve is firm.

The other day, his father pleaded for him to sleep, and when he adamantly refused, threatened to tie him down to his bed if he kept this up. "Please, Atem," he remembers him saying, weary eyes begging for him to listen. "You don't need to do this." It was the first time he ever brushed off his father's words.

In the end, it takes Mahad drugging his drink before he submits to a fitful slumber.

 **VII.**

A gentle hand runs its fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp with obvious care. He keeps his eyes shut even as awareness weaves its way to the forefront of his mind, enhancing every sound and touch and smell, and lets himself be overwhelmed by the myriad of sensations.

It's comforting.

"Hey," a voice murmurs above him. His ears twitch at the sound, sharpening his hearing so he could catch it more clearly. "Are you awake?"

"I do not want to be," Atem mumbles honestly. Keeping his eyes stubbornly shut, he waits for the other's reply to his admission.

There's a chuckle, smooth and amused and contagious enough to make his lips lift into a semblance of a smile, and Atem finds himself relishing in the sound. In the back of his mind, he wonders who this boy is and what he's doing here, but loses it to the wave of other, less taxing thoughts like _those hands are really warm_ and _this person has a nice laugh_.

Lightheaded, he blurts out, "I like your laugh."

A silence descends before Atem realizes what he said, and when he does his eyes snap open in shock, intending to remedy his slip of tongue, but finds himself stunned speechless.

Before him is obviously a foreigner, what with their pale skin and strange clothes, but the resemblance between them is startling. His wide eyes take in the backdrop, his surroundings, and he realizes with a sharp intake of breath that he's no longer in his room but outside in the sun where sand and water and soil and trees mix and mingle into one, big mess of a landscape. Flowers and stones dot the ground with a splash of color, a small stream cuts through both sand and dirt and in between two trees where it disappears over the horizon, and he finds his thoughts stumbling to a halt.

Where in Ra's name is he?

A hand clasps over his eyes, blocking his vision and plunging him into darkness. "You weren't supposed to see that," the boy admits almost sheepishly, and Atem wonders just how much this person knows about their whereabouts.

"Where are we?"

There's a short silence. "In your dream," is the hesitant reply. "Or- well, _our_ dream."

Atem shoots up from where he's lying down, throwing off the hand and grabbing onto small shoulders as he stares, bewildered, into large purple eyes. Never had he had a dream of this degree of clarity. It's almost impossible. He feels conscious, almost sickeningly so, and everything seems real enough - not like his other dreams where people and things and words alike were transparent and fading around the edges. His eyes catch something just out of his peripheral, and he turns to see it.

A crack. It runs from the ground up into the sky, and is frighteningly large as the background around its edges crumble into nothingness. Seeing that, he knows he'll wake up soon. His hands tighten their grip on the boy's shoulders. If this is a dream, then that means -

"You're my soulmate." As he says this, he stares down at smiling eyes for an honest answer even though he knows he'd get one. A rumble as the sky breaks and showers down in a million pieces has adrenaline pulsing through his body, but he doesn't shift his gaze for even a moment. After a long moment, he gives in to curiosity and his gaze flickers behind the other, entranced by the sight of clouds and sky and trees breaking apart and withering away as the dreamworld broke, when he sees it.

A nod.

And Atem throws every self-preservation instinct to the wind and crushes the smaller body against him like he's his life. His arms wind around and pin them together chest to chest, and he buries his face into soft hair and allows his hands to clutch desperately at the black cloth his soulmate is wearing. Breathing out a shuddering breath, a surge of happiness envelopes him when arms wrap around his middle, latching just as desperately onto him. A broken laugh escapes him.

"Thank the gods..." He trails off, unable to force the words around the lump in his throat.

"Please," the boy whispers into his shirt. The hands twist the fabric of his tunic in a vice-like grip. "Don't leave me again - I kept waiting and waiting a - and waiting, but - but you never showed up..."

Atem's breath hitches at the quiet sniffles and pulls away to press their foreheads together, hands pressing reassuringly into his soulmate's sides. Guilt gnaws at him for purposely straying from sleep and in that, also his soulmate. "Never again," he murmurs with all the conviction of a determined pharaoh. It's a promise, an oath, that he swears with his life, and nothing will break it. "I'm sorry for causing you pain, little one."

His soulmate tenses, and Atem's afraid he struck a sensitive nerve, but then a strained chuckle meets his ears and he relaxes somewhat. Somewhere in his peripheral, he sees infinite darkness from behind the chipping backdrop, and his arms instinctively tighten around his soulmate. Not yet. He doesn't want to leave yet, not when he finally has the chance to bond with his soulmate, when his chance _to be_ with him is finally within reach.

"Promise you won't forget?"

Shining eyes plead for a promise and a sickening numbness drops into the pit of Atem's stomach. He wants to promise, but after time and time again of forgetting sweet dreams and wallowing in disappointment, he's not sure if he can.

Instead, he presses a light kiss to his soulmate's temple, feeling complete and satiated by the simple act, and looks him in the eye. "I'll try."

And it seems that his admission is enough, because as darkness descends, his soulmate curls himself closer to him, rambling on about how he'll try to find him, how he'll wait forever if he needs to, and how much he missed him even though they've never really met. It's endearing, honestly.

But he agrees with every word with a mirror of his own, closing his eyes to the blackness to bask himself in his partner's warmth, waiting for the inevitable.

After a moment, he can feel his soulmate fade away in the face of consciousness, so he whispers a quiet declaration of love as his parting words and allows himself to slip back into the waking world.

When his eyes open, he smiles.

 **VIII.**

"You look happier, Atem."

His father studies at him from his place on the bed. He's bedridden with a horrible cough and fluctuating temperature, but his eyes shine just as bright. Atem can't help but think it sad that his father, the pharaoh of all people, has to suffer through this.

"I feel happier," Atem agrees, wiping away the sweat on Aknamkanon's brow. He hides the frown that wants to show when he feels the incredible heat of his skin despite the cool cloth and water. He'll pray to the gods as soon as his father is comfortable in the throes of sleep and hope for the best.

"That's good," his father murmurs, closing his eyes. "I've no need to worry then, when I leave."

Atem doesn't know what to say to that, so he keeps silent even though agitation and _nonono_ wring his gut in protest. Reluctant acceptance is the closest he gets to his father's words, because he doesn't want to hear his father talk about his own death with such certainty, and he desperately wants to correct his _when_ to _if_. A sliver of terror gnaws at him in the back of his mind, and the horrifying thought of his father dying while he's gone keeps him rooted in his seat.

He stays by his father's bedside throughout the night, a silent vigil in hopes of this kind man who raised him with dutiful care and infinite love will wake up to see the light of a new day.

When he is toeing the fine line between reality and sleep, a hand taps his shoulder, stirring him from his sleepy haze between awareness and unconsciousness. "Atem," his father whispers, dreadfully quiet in the night. The moon is still high and the sky still dark, but Atem is wide awake in the face of what he somehow knows are his father's last words.

He swallows the rock in his throat, forcing his voice to work with him. "Yes, Father?"

Rising to cup his cheek, Aknamkanon's hand is frighteningly cold and weak. Atem clasps a shaking hand over it, keeping it there, and as if his father notices the tremors running through him, he smiles.

"You've made me so proud," he starts, hoarse and faint and so close to death, but he pushes onward anyway. "I know I was not the best father you could've had - probably not even the one you deserved, but - "

"You were the best father I could ever ask for," Atem interrupts, wanting to convey the gratitude he always had for the dying man before him. He presses the hand closer to his cheek. "I never wanted another in your place."

" - but let it be known that I've always loved you, from the moment you were put into my arms as a babe until now. I've never stopped." Here, he takes a laborious breath, sounding pained and relieved all at once.

Tears threaten to fall from where they hang precariously on Atem's lashes. His grip on his father's limp hand is dangerously tight, but he can't bring himself to loosen his hold for fear of losing the one person who stood by him through thick and thin - and that makes this goodbye all the more bitter.

"You have a big heart, Atem, you are kind and understand...the pains of being on the sharpened end of the spear. It brings you closer to the people, to those that serve you, and will help you judge which road you take should you come down to a crossroads. There is no doubt in my mind that you - " a series of coughs wracks his body " - you will be a great pharaoh."

As Aknamkanon eases back into the bed, a relieved sigh escaping his lips like he accomplished the one thing he wanted in life, the pharaoh, his idol, his friend and his father passes to the sound of his anguished sobs.

 **IX.**

There's no time to grieve. He's pushed and pulled from here to there without so much as a second between, and it jars his trailing mind with talk of _heir_ and _coronation_ the moment his father was placed in his tomb.

For that alone, he feels an angry bitterness towards those who refused him the time to mourn his father, but buries it deep and locks it away lest it be noticed. He's well aware that keeping his profile is one of the little tests everyone will judge him for - a pharaoh is calm, a pharaoh is strong, even while chained down with heartache, and he does his best to radiate that strength with every fibre of his being. Because that's what the people want to see - _need_ to see - so they can be just a little less restless about a new ruler, about _change_.

From this moment on, his needs are secondary to the people's.

He goes through the ritual under the watchful eyes of the three gods - whose names tease him just out of arm's reach - and passes with their acceptance. The Millennium Puzzle his father wore around his neck is bestowed unto him, and he wears it with pride and affection because it brings him just a little closer to the man, makes the illusion of him watching as he takes each gratifying step forward all the more real. It grounds him.

In wake of his new power, he meets up with his High Priests to establish new laws and amend others. A wave of reforms washes through his kingdom after weeks of constant debates and sharp refusal from the aristocrats, but it comes and he can't help but feel refreshed. There's so much to be done, so much he _wants_ to get done, and he's not sure if he can handle this pressure but...

He's the pharaoh now, and he's going to be a damn good one.

 **X.**

They're discussing one topic or another in the throne room, just Atem and his High Priests, when there's a lull in the conversation. Surprisingly, it's Seto who takes advantage of it, asking a question with uncharacteristic bluntness that momentarily stuns half the people in the room.

"Where is your mark, My Pharaoh?"

Excluding him, of course. He's been waiting for this subject to come out sooner or later. But he plays the fool and tilts his head, raising a brow at the holder of the Millennium Rod.

"Why do you ask?" Atem counters, an amused gleam in his eyes showing he means no harm.

"Marks appear sometime around birth - some are even born with them," Seto, despite the placidity of his pharaoh, explains carefully. "Excuse me if I'm overstepping my bounds, but I heard you lacked a mark for several years and still lack one now. I wish to clear up any misconceptions I've gathered during my training here."

Out of the corner of Atem's eyes, Mahad shifts but stays eerily silent as he eyes Seto and the other, equally curious priests. Clearly, he's uncomfortable with the subject in general, but everyone else is too focused on Atem to realize the slight downturn of his lips and the way his shoulders are a bit too stiff.

Atem, on the other hand, doesn't feel anything but pleasant. "I thought you noticed," Atem admits after keeping up a purposeful silence just to watch Seto fidget. It's entertaining in its own way, seeing his probably most uptight priest lose a piece of his composure. "I didn't hide it from any prying eyes since the day I got it."

He knows Seto noticed it, though probably not in the way it's supposed to be noticed, but the words are true all the same. A flicker of understanding passes through most of his priests' eyes, and something like satisfaction settles itself in his stomach, filling him with the knowledge that these people _know_ or even _suspected_.

"How long?" Karim speaks up. He's the son of one of Aknamkanon's priests, someone Atem came to familiarize himself with, and enjoys his company as much as he does the others. His eyes slide over to Atem's arm. "Your mark...how long have you had it?"

"When I was ten years," he replies, hiding his smile at the shock that runs through everyone but Mahad. His fingers unconsciously caress the markings on his forearm, garnering their attention with the subtle movement that spoke of baffling fondness. "I have yet to properly meet them."

Shada looks slightly mystified by the black strokes, his eyes thoughtful and pensive at the same time. "I remember one day when the previous pharaoh asked me to lock away certain memories of a man who came by." Here, he looks up at Atem's scarlet eyes. "He spoke blasphemy of curses and demons and the gods' eventual destruction of Egypt, muttering your name between his murmurs. Is that- was that because of your mark?"

A frown wants to pull at Atem's lips at the reminder, but he manages to force it back. "Unfortunately, yes," he sighs, remembering his father, fierce and angered, and the scholar, sniveling and accusing with his distrustful eyes, butting heads. He stills suddenly, his eyes roving about his priests. "You- you cannot possibly thi - "

"Never." And it's Mahad who says this, stern and firm, and it wipes away the budding doubts in his mind. "I've seen the way you talk about it, My Pharaoh, and how you talk of your soulmate. I believe that that is your mark, not a curse, so do not let these thoughts fester inside of you for any longer. I've always stood by you, will continue to stand by you along with each wielder of a Millennium Item, no matter who cries curse or foul."

A tense silence follows when Mahad kneels on one leg, head bowed in subservience, and Atem can't seem to breathe correctly. He counts a beat, two, when Seto kneels as well, rod held between his hand and his chest right over his heart, and Isis goes down with a knowing smile. Karim and Shada follow in tandem, murmuring a quiet _Forever may you reign, Pharaoh_ which makes his heart gallop like a wild horse in his chest, threatening to leap out of his throat, but he manages to swallow it with some difficulty. After a cursory glance at his fellow priests, an appraising one at Atem, Aknadin kneels down without a word.

With that - with the loyalty and companionship and _acceptance_ of his High Priests - Atem feels like he won the world.

 **XI.**

His world is crumbling, tearing by the seams, and Atem can't do anything but grit his teeth and hopes his plan works.

Because Karim is dead.

Shada is incapacitated.

Shimon is dead, too.

Isis is alive but hanging on by a thread.

Seto is simmering in barely restricted fury.

And- And Mahad isn't _human_ anymore, but he still follows him with a heart filled with infinite loyalty. _Misplaced loyalty_ , a sadistic voice snarls. _Because it's your fault for not being fast enough, strong enough_. Atem ignores it but it doesn't stop him from wincing like the jabs are sharpened spearheads.

Worst of all, Aknadin betrayed them, betrayed him, betrayed _Seto_ , and Zorc is stomping down on homes and people are dying before his eyes in flames of red and orange and everything just spirals down from there.

It's that damn thief's fault - _no, your fault, only your fault,_ the voice corrects in his ears, taking perverse pleasure in his minute flinch.

Atem scoffs and pulls his horse to a stop. "Then the fault is ours," he corrects aloud. The voice doesn't counter back, and Atem marks this as a victory.

He cranes his head back to see Zorc looming before him, all black and darkness and shadows even in the light of the inferno around them, and a feral growl rise at the smirk on its face. His hand cups the puzzle close while the other wraps around his mark. They both respond with a calming heat, and he inwardly thanks both his father and his soulmate.

He takes a deep breath, searches for the names that eluded him for so long, stretches his arm to its full length, and sends Zorc a smirk of his own.

"I summon the three Egyptian gods - Obelisk, Slifer, and Ra!"

 **XII.**

Seto is staring at him.

"Pharaoh, wha- "

"I entrust the future of our kingdom to you, Cousin."

A strange flare burns his chest when he says that - _cousin_ \- and the priest's face scrunches up slightly when it slips so smoothly off his tongue like he's said it for years.

Glancing down at his puzzle, strikingly bold against his faint form, he pushes it into Seto's hands, smiling all the while because he knows he has nothing to fear. Seto would no doubt lead Egypt to prosperity, would do his damnedest to fix the wrongs his father did, because he loved this place as much as Atem and his Father did. Staring wide-eyed at the Millennium Puzzle, Seto viciously shakes his head and starts to say something, but the words die in his throat.

Atem is _fading_.

"No... This cannot be," he furiously exclaims, taking a step forward with desperate eyes that plead behind the wild, angered exterior. "Pharaoh, you cannot just _leave_. The people - what of the people? How will - " A strangled sound forces its way out into the open, and he clamps his mouth shut to keep the rest of it in, lowering his gaze almost defeatedly.

"You will not be alone," Atem consoles, feeling the last of his consciousness slipping no matter how hard he tries to prolong his end. "Isis and Mana stand beside you, all you have to do is lead the way."

"You are the rightful pharaoh," is muttered so quietly Atem has to strain his ears to hear it. "I do not deserve this."

"Then make yourself worthy of the title Pharaoh." Atem sets a hand on his cousin's shoulder, briefly noticing how he can see through his arm - _his mark_ \- and gives him an encouraging smile.

It takes a while, but Seto manages to find it in himself to smile back, and that's all the assurance Atem needs.

"Remember, Seto: I believe in you." And he lets himself go, disappearing in a million pieces.

 **XIII.**

He's hanging between life and death when he contemplates his one regret.

 _Promise you won't forget?_

Shutting his eyes to the darkness consuming him, the guilt too much to bear, he murmurs, voice breaking pitifully, "I'm sorry."

He forgets.

* * *

 **A/N:** There might be a second/third part to this, if motivation allows it, but I'll label this as a one-shot for now.

Thanks for reading!


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